ROXANE:
At times,—meseems
He is but partly dead—our hearts still speak,
As if his love, still living, wrapped me round!
THE DUKE (after another pause):
Cyrano comes to see you?
ROXANE:
Often, ay.
Dear, kind old friend! We call him my ‘Gazette.’
He never fails to come: beneath this tree
They place his chair, if it be fine:—I wait,
I broider;—the clock strikes;—at the last stroke
I hear,—for now I never turn to look—
Too sure to hear his cane tap down the steps;
He seats himself:—with gentle raillery
He mocks my tapestry that’s never done;
He tells me all the gossip of the week. . .
(Le Bret appears on the steps):
Why, here’s Le Bret!
(Le Bret descends):
How goes it with our friend?
LE BRET:
Ill!—very ill.
THE DUKE:
How?
ROXANE (to the Duke):
He exaggerates!
LE BRET:
All that I prophesied: desertion, want!. . .
His letters now make him fresh enemies!—
Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout,
Sham brave,—the thieving authors,—all the world!
ROXANE:
Ah! but his sword still holds them all in check;
None get the better of him.
THE DUKE (shaking his head):
Time will show!
LE BRET:
Ah, but I fear for him—not man’s attack,—
Solitude—hunger—cold December days,
That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:—
Lo! the assassins that I fear for him!
Each day he tightens by one hole his belt:
That poor nose—tinted like old ivory:
He has retained one shabby suit of serge.